


No Regrets

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M, Partner Betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:59:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair's POV on why he and Jim couldn't make it as a couple.<br/>This story is a sequel to Maladjusted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> This is my response to my sister's story Maladjusted. Can you guess who's the Jimbabe and who's the Blairbabe?

## No Regrets

by Roxanne

Author's webpage: <http://www.angelfire.com/ga4/garett/senslash.htm>

* * *

No Regrets  
By Roxanne 

God, I don't know how much more of this I can take. This dancing around each other ... being so careful to not say what we're really feeling is making me crazy. He thinks he's so subtle ... hiding in his truck until I'm gone ... just so he won't have to face me and deal with this ... this chasm between us. 

I'm not much better. I let it happen. I see him crouched down, hiding behind the steering wheel. So what do I do? Pour a little salt in the wound and actually start to whistle as I strut by. Does he know the song I'm whistling? Can he hear the pain? Probably not. 

We only talk at work now and then only about work. But I don't know what to say either. It's not like I've got the answers anymore. We've gone way beyond the slim bit of knowledge I gleaned from good ole Sir Richard. All I do know is that we have to get past this mess we've created or we might as well go our separate ways. Maybe that's what he wants. How the hell would I know. It's not like he ever talks to me. 

And I'm so damn sick of his moods ... of those endless periods of silence, broken only by his sarcastic comments. I can't do or say anything right at home or on the job. My handcuffing technique isn't good. I should spray the furniture polish on the cloth, not on the table. I read the Miranda rights too quickly. Nobody's ever going to take me seriously if I leave my earrings in. 

Why exactly his constant barrage of complaints surprises me, I don't even know. I guess I've apparently never really understood Jim Ellison. There was a time when I thought that I could read my sentinel like an open book. I meddled and wheedled and generally made a pest of myself until I knew as much as was humanly possible to know about Jim. I met his father, his brother, his ex-wife, his cousin. I talked over every failed relationship with him and never judged the man's incredibly bad taste in men or women. I listened when he occasionally talked about his childhood and I held his former guide and shaman in my arms as he died. 

And then I fell in love with him. I'd never met anyone like Jim. Even if he hadn't been a sentinel, I would have looked up to the man. He's the bravest, most honorable person I know. He's also the kindest. He's a little more prone to violence than I was used to, but when he let me worm my way into his police world, I found an excitement that all the anthropological expeditions could never touch. 

But all along, there was this dark side. I'd see glimpses of it from time to time. I think the first time it really scared me was when I nagged him into talking to his father about his friend Bud's death. God, he got so hateful when he thought that I'd crossed that imaginary line he'd drawn in our friendship. We could do everything together, live together, be partners, be friends, but I was never to know the real Jim Ellison. I guess he was afraid that I'd spot some chink in his armor. Even now I don't think he realizes how impossible that is ... how much I idolize him. 

And then in a moment of weakness, he let me in. We'd been working all weekend ... spring cleaning, for god's sake ... and were tired and a little slap happy by Sunday night. After a couple of beers with dinner, we were both in silly moods. Somehow the good natured wrestling turned into serious groping and fondling. We kissed so much that night. Jim pulled away at first, but I said what the hell, everybody already thinks we're doing it. We might as well enjoy it. 

Oh god, I enjoyed it. I loved sucking his dick. I loved fucking his ass. I loved the our bodies looked, moving together. And I especially loved curling into the warm, safe place in his arms and sleeping the sleep of the well and truly fucked. But mostly I loved Jim. And I thought that I could love Jim enough to make Jim love himself. I was wrong. 

Sex changed everything. Jim got possessive and jealous. I couldn't talk to a woman without him thinking I was flirting. He became obsessed with secrecy and was terrified that the world would find out that he-man Ellison was taking it up the ass from a little squirt like me. I kept telling him that if the whole P.D. already thought we were sleeping together before we did, what difference did it make now that we were? Didn't matter. 

His moods just kept getting worse and worse. No matter how many times I told him I loved him, I don't think he ever really believed me. I kind of thought that telling the world that my dissertation was a fraud might be a clue to the great detective, but apparently it wasn't. When words didn't work, I tried to show him with my actions. That made him uncomfortable. God forbid, I hold his hand in public or kiss him outside of the loft. Someone might see. 

Then only a couple months after we got together, we met his dad and Stephen for brunch one Sunday. Stephen made a joke about a particularly nasty hickey I had on my neck. He thought he was being funny when he asked if Jim gave it to me. Well, there was no point denying it after Jim turned white as a sheet and stormed from the restaurant, leaving me sputtering apologies to his family. When I got to the truck I thought he'd zoned out. He was staring straight ahead with his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. I touched his arm and he flinched away, then started the motor and drove home in silence. 

That night I told him that I couldn't do it any longer. I told him that his moods were driving me crazy. I told him that if he loved me he shouldn't be ashamed for everyone to know it. I told him he was letting fear ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. The look on his face nearly broke my heart. I knew that I'd just affirmed every horrible thing he thought about himself. 

I couldn't stand it, so I made a decision ... better he hate me than inflict more pain upon himself. So I backtracked and told him that wasn't really it at all. I put on my flighty Blair face and said, "Hey man, I just didn't realize how much I missed women. You know? Once a ladies man, always a ladies man." 

He nodded and said it was probably for the best. The relationship was making being work partners too difficult. It was hard to keep it professional. Better that we go back to the way it was before. So I moved back down to my room and asked out the first girl that smiled at me. I try to act happy around him and spend a whole lot of nights sitting alone in my car in Harbor Park. 

I don't want a woman. I want Jim. I want forever with the person I love more than I could ever have imagined was possible. I keep a box of Kleenex in the car so I can jerk off and scream his name in the dark and not risk him hearing me. I pat on aftershave before I head out for another evening of listening to the car stereo. I even check into the Foothills Motel occasionally so that it looks like I'm getting some action. 

I know that I can't keep it up, but what can I do? I should leave, but I'm not sure I can. Even living with Jim's hatred is preferable to being alone. And if I left, then what? I gave up my life for Jim Ellison and it still wasn't enough. Now all I've got is this shell that used to be Blair Sandburg, with no place to go and nothing to do once I get there. 

And you know the really sad thing? I'd do it all over again for a sliver of a chance to be loved by Jim Ellison. 

END 


End file.
